Chapter 1

"Oh, God…"

"Sammy?"

"Oh, God, his head…"

"Sammy…"

"It was just gone…and there was so much blood…"

"SAM!"

The second repetition of his name, clear and sharp, at last penetrated the gray film over his eyes, and Sam's vision cleared slowly until he could make out his brother's hazel eyes. Narrowed with concerned and unhappiness. As Sam blinked away the last of the pictures, other sensations began to take the place of those he'd just felt—firm hands on his shoulders where there had been nothing before, carpeted wood floor taking the place of concrete digging into his knees, and the smell of gun oil instead of the coppery scent of the blood that had bathed the dark alley in his mind's eye.

The change was…disconcerting. He'd been experiencing it for months now, and the shooting pain in his head for longer than that, but he was beginning to doubt that he'd ever get used to either.

"Hey, Sam. C'mon, dude, work with me here—snap out of it." Dean waited until Sam's eyes met his, then murmured, "That's better. Now what'd you see?"

"Uh…two guys…in an alley. They were talking—it didn't make much sense, the stuff they said, but…they definitely weren't civilians."

"Hunters?" Dean asked, in some surprise.

"No, I don't think so. I dunno. But…Dean, a demon showed up. And it was definitely looking for them."

Dean blinked. "Okay, so…what'd it want?"

"I'm not sure—they definitely didn't know what it was. Well, one of them seemed to know what it was, but not like it was really familiar with them…know what I mean?"

"Considering all the sense you're not making, sure."

Sam shook his head and held out his arm, murmuring as Dean helped him to his feet, "Whatever, let's just get going."

He was halfway to the door with his duffel before Dean said pointedly, "Uh, Sammy?"

"What?"

"Where are we going?"

XXX

Sam never had been able to figure out where Dean's aversion to New York City had come from. He'd been to every major and most of the minor cities on the map, and as far as Sam knew he viewed them all the same way, whether they were big cities or small counties or mountain towns or the homes of national landmarks; they were all just jobs, neutral, not to be liked or hated.

Except for New York City. Whenever that particular destination was mentioned, Dean would twitch, go silent for awhile, and then begin firing off complaints. And as far as Sam could tell, there was no reason for it. Like Dean's fear of planes, this hatred was entirely unfounded, rather than being brought on by an actual event.

But unfounded or not, the hatred existed, and Sam knew that the moment he told Dean their destination he would have to endure an immediate litany of grievances.

Dean proved him right, and when they arrived in the city fourteen hours later, Sam practically leapt at the chance to stop for breakfast while they figured out what to do next.

"Okay, so first thing's first: how long do we have?" Dean asked, once they were tucked into the corner booth of a tiny diner with their food and two gigantic cups of coffee.

Sam shrugged. "Well, I never see anything too far in advance, so it should be tonight."

"And it couldn't have happened already, right?"

Sam shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Didn't get that feeling, anyway."

"So let's just assume it's tonight. Next question: where?"

"That's gonna be a little harder. You bring in the city map?"

"You mean the one that you made me stop and buy not fifteen minutes ago? No, sorry, forgot it," Dean replied, rolling his eyes and slapping the folded rectangle down next to Sam's plate.

Sam decided not to reply, but rather downed a forkful of eggs and opened the map to study it. They ate in silence for a few minutes before the younger Winchesters finally said, "Found it."

Dean leaned over to peer at the spot he was indicating. "You sure?"

"Yeah. I recognize the names of the bar and the sandwich shop across the street."

Dean nodded. "Okay, so we know where and when, so I guess all there is to do now is find out the who and the why."

"I didn't catch any last names, but one of them was named Cal and the other was Nik. And the Nik guy mentioned something he called 'Leandros Co.' Could be a last name."

"Well, it gives us a place to start, anyway. So let's finish up here, grab a room, and try to get some profiles to go with those names, and we'll head out before nightfall?"

"Sounds good."

"'Course it does, it was my plan."

XXX

"Huh. That's kinda weird."

"What?" Dean asked, looking up from the hunting (deer, not ghost) magazine he'd picked up after he'd tossed the remote aside in frustration an hour before.

"It's this Leandros Co. the guy mentioned. It doesn't exist—and neither do the guys, apparently."

"What?" Dean asked, eyebrows knitting together in confusion as he put the magazine down and come to stand behind him.

"I've looked at everything—police records, I.D.s issued, New York census files, everything I've ever learned to hack, and I came up with nothing. And if Leandros Co. is an actual company, then it hasn't incorporated or gotten any kind of permit to exist."

"Well, maybe he wasn't talking literally."

"Yeah, maybe. Probably. But that doesn't explain why I couldn't find the guys."

"You sure you're spelling it right?"

"I've tried every variation of Leandros I can think of, and there are only so many ways you can twist the names Cal and Nik."

"Well, what about newspaper articles?"

"If they've ever done anything to make the papers, their names aren't mentioned."

"Huh. You're right, that's weird. What do you think it means?"

Sam looked up at him and shrugged. "I don't think there are too many answers here. They have to exist, and be here, because my visions have never been wrong before. So…"

"They're probably living like we do, under the radar. So does that mean they're hunters after all?"

"Maybe, but…I don't think so. There are a lot of possible explanations. Con artists."

"Murders."

"Running from the cops."

"Running from something else, maybe."

"Like what? And what does all this have to do with the fact that they apparently know about all the crap we deal with?"

Sam sighed and rubbed his head. "I don't know, Dean. I don't have any answers here. I'm just as confused as you are."

"So I guess we'll just have to wait until tonight, then," Dean said reluctantly, turning to go back to his bed. "Jeez, where's Garcia when you need her?"

"Who?"

"…Never mind. I'm going to sleep. We'll be up all night again."

"I'll look a little more."

Dean shrugged. "Suit yourself. Just try to get a little sleep, huh?"

"I will, Dad."

"Liar."

XXX

"This the place?"

"Yeah, it is."

"Sure?"

"Stop asking me if I'm sure."

"Okay, fine, sorry. So I guess we…hide?"

To Dean's surprise, Sam shook his head. "Actually, I don't think so. I don't think that would go over well with these guys at all. I think we should just wait at the entrance to the alley and make the first move when we see them."

Dean shrugged. "Whatever. Just…one question, and don't bite my head off for it, okay?"

"Okay…" Sam said cautiously. "Go ahead."

"How sure are you that these guys are on our side?"

To his credit, Sam grasped his meaning immediately, and made no attempt at dissembling. But he was clearly unhappy with the implication that he and Dean could be here to save lives they would only end up taking later.

"They were human, Dean. I could tell. And that demon—whoever it was—was definitely looking to kill them."

"It's looked to kill a lot of people, and they weren't always good guys. The enemy of your enemy isn't always your friend, Sammy."

"I know that. I'm not an idiot. But the bottom line is, a demon is coming here tonight. And if there's any chance at all that these guys are on our side, we can't just throw them to the wolves. Right?"

Dean sighed. "Yeah, I know, I know."

"Glad to hear it," Sam said, sounding only a little disgruntled as he went to the entrance of the alley and leaned against the wall, folding his arms over his chest and going absolutely still.

Dean sighed again, deeper this time, and went to stand across from him.

"And now we wait."

XXX

"Are you sure it was tonight?"

"Dean."

"Sam."

Sam stared at him for a moment, then resolutely suppressed the twitching of his lips and said, "How long's it been?"

"Three hours."

"It has not."

Dean held out his wrist. Sam looked at his watch, then up at Dean, who wasn't—quite—smirking, and scowled. "Fine, let's go eat dinner. Fast. At the bar across the street. And then we're coming back."

"Unless it's not tonight," Dean muttered.

"You say something, Dean?"

"No, nothing at all."

"Really? 'Cause it sounded like…"

"Giving up, are you?"

Dean usually prided himself on taking things in stride, and now was no different. Like Sam, he reacted almost instantly to the strange voice, raising his gun and turning to point it at the person who had spoken.

He'd barely gotten turned halfway around before the gun was plucked, almost delicately, from his hand by the person who had slipped up, smoke-like, to grab him. Held firmly against the person behind him, something cold and metal and razor-sharp to his throat, he felt as if a block of ice had dropped into his stomach—a feeling that was not remotely helped by the sight of Sam being held the same way, with a gun to his head.

And just like that, they'd gone from being the hunters to being the hunted.

"Don't move, Sam," Dean said through gritted teeth, trying not to let his throat flex as he spoke.

"Yeah, I got that," Sam snapped, clearly goaded, and as serious as the situation was looking, Dean had to stifle a smirk.

But all inclination in that direction disappeared abruptly when the blade came close enough to brush his skin.

"I think it would be good if you told us why you were waiting here," said the guy at Dean's back. His voice, whoever he was, was as cool and calm as if he was strolling down a well-lit street, almost conversational.

"If you want him to answer, Nik, you should probably at least move the sword far enough that he won't slit his own throat trying," said the guy holding Sam. "Just a thought."

"We were waiting for you," Sam said before Nik could answer.

"Oh. Well, I don't like the sound of that," the other guy—who would be Cal—said.

"No, we don't want to hurt you," Sam said quickly, his eyes as fixed on Nik's sword as Dean's were on Cal's trigger finger. "We came to warn you."

Cal rolled his eyes. "Oh, yay, something new. Okay, fine, who's the warning from?" he asked, sounding utterly bored at the thought. "Kin? Puck? Employer? 'Cause I gotta say, I can only hear 'Stop nosing into things that aren't your business' so many times before it just stops scaring me."

"It scared you before?" Nik asked lightly. "For shame, little brother."

"Oh, shut up, I was being sarcastic and you know it," Cal snapped. "Okay, guys, at the risk of sounding like someone out of a Bourne movie—who sent you?"

"No one," Sam answered instantly. "It's not that kind of warning. We came on our own."

"Why?" Cal asked, sounding confused. "We don't know you, do we?"

"No, and actually, we have no idea who you are, either," Sam said, still talking quickly, as if afraid Dean would try to interject and do himself serious injury.

As if. The kid obviously couldn't tell how sharp Niko's sword was.

"Look," Sam continued, sounding a little desperate now, probably because of the look on Dean's face. "This is a really bad place for us to be having this conversation. Tonight especially. We need to go somewhere—anywhere. Even that bar would be fine. And then, I swear, we'll tell you everything."

Dean raised his eyebrows, but he really wasn't in a position to do much else other than watch while Cal's eyebrows knitted together in thought.

"Whaddya think, Nik?"

Nik didn't move for a moment, but then he seemed to come to some sudden decision. Before Dean comprehended it, the blade left his throat and slid into its sheath with a hiss. The gun in Cal's hand, too, disappeared, and Sam and Dean moved toward each other at the same time, both seeking to put some distance between themselves and their temporary captors.

Cal, meanwhile, moved past them to join Nik, and for a few moments the four men studied each other in silence. Then Nik asked, "What are your names?"

He sounded completely implacable, as if prepared to wait all night for an answer to his question. Dean hesitated, then shrugged. "I'm Dean," he said, relishing the ability to speak again. "This is Sam."

Nik nodded. "Well, Dean, Sam, my name is Niko, and my grammatically challenged brother is Cal, who is, by the way, the only person to call me Nik." As he spoke, he bent to retrieve Dean's gun and tucked it into his coat. "Now," he continued as he straightened. "Shall we go?"

TBC